We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [195]
Herman looked from one to the other. He couldn't help but admire the Rolling Sidewalk. He certainly knew his trade, even if it was a con man's, peddling a fraudulent blend of truth and lies. The ship with no funnel! It sounded made-up, but it wasn't: a ship with a diesel-powered motor, the Selandia, had been launched by B&W Shipyard some years ago. And she was undoubtedly a successor to the steamer. He waited patiently for Hammerfeldt to continue. The truthful part had been conveyed. Now for the lies.
"Kalundborg Steel Shipyard," the Rolling Sidewalk said. "That's where the ship of the future will be launched. They've just issued the shares. The last one will be sold before the day's out. It's about striking while the iron's hot, don't you agree, sailor?" He winked at Herman, whom he still regarded as an accomplice.
Klara looked astonished, as if she couldn't believe her own ears. "Kalundborg Steel Shipyard! But that's Mr. Henckel's company, isn't it? He's in jail!" She appealed to Herman, who nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That's correct."
They both turned to the Rolling Sidewalk. But the cocksure hawker of future riches had already vanished into the shouting crowd.
Klara Friis had learned her lesson.
They crossed the Stock Exchange Bridge and continued down Slotsholmen. The wharf teemed with life: dockers were busy unloading scented cargoes of fresh-cut wood from bark- and brig-rigged ships from Finland. He glanced at her. The anxiety had returned to her face. All he'd wanted was to open her eyes a bit, but now it seemed she'd lost heart. That hadn't been his intention, though he kept asking himself what her true purpose was. What was it she really wanted here?
They crossed the square at the corner of Holbergsgade and Havnegade. She looked up at the huge bronze statue of the naval hero, whose outstretched arm seemed to be directing the traffic.
"That's Niels Juel," he said.
"Just like at home?"
Marstal was her yardstick for everything, so she was probably thinking of Marstal's Niels Juelsgade. Perhaps she even believed this statue was named after a street in their own little backwater. There were no statues in Marstal, only the stone that Captain Madsen had erected in honor of fellowship. Now Klara could compare the two edifices and acquire a realistic sense of her benefactor's true stature. Copenhagen was the real world. Here, people didn't haul old boulders out of the sea and stick them up somewhere, with a few lines carved into the granite. Here, people thought big and built big.
Suddenly Herman had an idea. He pointed to a foreign-looking building on the corner. It had tall, narrow windows with pointed Oriental arches, and its roof sat like a heavy lid that was about to slide off into the street. A set of steps led up to a solid wooden door set in walls a meter thick. It was a house that looked as if it had turned its back on the rest of the city.
"The man who lives in there could give you some good advice."
She gave him a puzzled look. Then she turned her head and scrutinized the sand-colored building. "Who is he?" she asked.
"He's a completely ordinary man. His name is Markussen. He was once an able seaman. Now he's a friend of the king. There are those who say his word is more powerful than His Majesty's. He'll help you.
They crossed the square and stopped in front of the entrance. She gazed up at the façade: THE FAR EAST ASIA CORPORATION, said the brass plate next to the door.
"It's a big house."
"No smaller than his houses in Vladivostok and Bangkok."
"Should I really go in?" she asked.
He nodded encouragingly, but he was already regretting this whim. Which was all it was, after all. He'd felt magnanimous when they left the stock exchange. Then he'd seen the sense of defeat spreading across her face and felt obliged to do something more for her, to cheer her up. Magnanimity was a new and unfamiliar feeling for him. Finding it to his taste, he'd wanted to bathe in the sunshine of selflessness a little longer. But this was downright ridiculous. If she'd been disappointed earlier,